


Another X on the Calendar

by bbjkrss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Eating Disorders, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 11:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbjkrss/pseuds/bbjkrss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is worried about Sherlock's eating habits. Sherlock notices and tries to change himself, but the battle with biology is harder than he anticipated. (Warning for eating disorder-like behavior, but no real disorder.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posting from my writing tumblr, bbjkrss-writes. Based on this prompt from the meme: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2262.html?thread=2383830#t2383830

            The calendar is dotted with red X’s. Twelve of them, to be exact, but John knows the number isn’t quite as impressive as it seems. The X’s don’t signify days, as he so desperately wishes they would, but rather meals, spread across the last three weeks. (The fact that twelve days out of twenty-one would be impressive makes him feel sick, but it’s not the time for that right now.) Some days are doubled up, and one even has a miraculous third squeezed in from when John managed to convince Sherlock to steal a few bites of his dessert at Angelo’s, but those days are rare and vastly outnumbered by the empty squares.

            Sherlock will insist that nothing is wrong if John asks; he says that he’s eaten more regularly since John’s moved in than he has since he was a teenager, but John hardly considers that a comforting thought. Sherlock is still frightfully skinny; once while he was out John tried on one of his jackets (more out of boredom and a desire to feel the expensive fabric than anything else, he told himself firmly at the time), and while the sleeves were passable, if a tight fit, he’d been unable to button it across his waist. (The look Sherlock had given him when he arrived home had been disconcerting, and soon after he began locking his closet before he went out. John still isn’t quite sure what conclusions Sherlock had drawn, but he isn’t about to ask.)

            John knows he’s not the picture of health- being out of active duty will do that to you- and he and Sherlock have different body types besides, but he can’t help feeling worried. He doesn’t want to believe it’s anorexia- Sherlock doesn’t seem the type- but neither can he believe that Sherlock’s body doesn’t need more than the scant nutrition he’s putting into it.

            The business with the X’s had actually started over Sherlock’s drinking habits, however; there had been a case about five weeks back in which Sherlock worked for three days straight with no sleep and little, if any, sustenance. John remembers coming downstairs on the morning of the fourth day to find Sherlock slumped over the coffee table, surrounded by photographs and papers of notes. At first he’d been amused, if a little concerned, at Sherlock’s willingness to work until he collapsed, but when he hadn’t stirred, even after John’s normal banging about making breakfast, his concern grew and he’d gone over to check Sherlock’s vitals.

            John remembers, also, Sherlock’s bewildered expression upon being shaken awake. He remembers the flush on his face, his elevated pulse, the faint slur of his words and hoarseness of his voice as he asked what time it was. He remembers vividly how frightened he himself had felt, and how angry when Sherlock told him how he’d been too busy to drink anything, but don’t be silly John, he was perfectly fine.

            He’d demanded Sherlock start keeping track after that: a blue X on the calendar in the kitchen for every day he drank at least five glasses of water or tea. It wasn’t ideal, he said when he proposed it, but it would help set his mind at ease. Sherlock had treated the whole thing as ridiculous and childish at first, but relented once John threatened to get Mycroft involved. The almost steady row of X’s, despite many accompanied by sarcastic or biting comments, was a reassuring sight.

            If Sherlock had thought that would be the end of John’s bothering him over his health, however, he’d been sorely mistaken. Seeing that his drinking habits had improved so quickly, John had decided to go for broke and suggest that Sherlock start doing the same thing for his meals. Sherlock had looked up from his thinking pose on the couch to stare at him in a mix of incredulity and disgust.

            “I have a system that works, John,” he’d said slowly, as if he didn’t believe that John would be able to understand him. “I’m not going to alter my eating habits just to satisfy some new desire of yours to nurture me. I’ll admit I made a mistake, neglecting fluids, but I haven’t died of malnutrition yet.”

            “Yet,” John repeated, staying firm. “It’s a cumulative effect, you know, and I’d really rather not come downstairs one of these days to find you passed out again, or have you faint while we’re out. What if you’re by yourself?”

            Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “I’m sure it’s happened before. I take it as a warning and alter my behaviour accordingly. The human body is nothing if not adaptable.”

            “Adaptable.” John forced himself to look away and take a deep breath; he knew from experience that getting emotionally riled up with Sherlock was never productive, but how else was he bloody well supposed to react after being told that his… friend had fainted from hunger and didn’t consider it a problem?

            “John?” Sherlock lowered his hands marginally down his chest. “You haven’t been this upset over my health the entire time you’ve lived here. What’s changed?”

            John flexed his fingers against the arm of his chair. _Breathe. Don’t yell at him._ “We are dating now, I hope you realise.”

            Sherlock’s face remained infuriatingly blank. “So?”

            John looked at him as if he’d gone daft. Which he had.

            “We’re _dating,_ Sherlock. Emotional attachment and all that? It’s going to make me upset when you can’t be arsed to take care of yourself.”

            Sherlock furrowed his brows a bit. He opened his mouth, probably to tell John just how ridiculous or idiotic he was being, but then seemed to think better of it and settled back with his hands under his chin once more.

            The blue X’s had become a constant after that point, and the red had begun to creep onto the calendar as well, but here they are, three weeks after that conversation, and John feels as though they haven’t made any progress at all. The point of doing this was to improve Sherlock’s habits, not to give himself confirmation of what he’d been worried about.

            Sherlock’s doorknob turns and John hurriedly busies himself with the kettle, as far away from the calendar as he can get while remaining in the kitchen. “Tea?” he calls out, keeping his voice light.

            “Hm? No, thank you.” Sherlock walks over to the calendar and studies it, frowning, for a moment before taking the red pen and making a careful X on today’s square.

            John’s sort of committed to make the tea now, so he flicks the kettle on and goes to grab mugs and sugar from the cabinet (even though Sherlock’s declined a cup, John has found that if he lays out an extra mug the tea will get drunk regardless). He tries to keep all emotion from his voice as he remarks, “Are you having breakfast today, then?”

            “No,” Sherlock replies. He sounds distracted, and is frowning down at the buttons of his shirt when John turns around to look at him. They’ve been done up unevenly. “I had something earlier. Don’t remember when.” John has no time to comment, about either the buttons or the food, before Sherlock is sweeping away into the living room.

            “We’re having lunch at Angelo’s,” he calls to John. The sound of shuffling papers drifts through the open door. “Be dressed and ready by eleven.”

            John glances at the clock; he has about fifteen minutes, probably less, knowing Sherlock’s impatience. The tea can wait.

            “Is it for a case?” he asks as he switches off the kettle. Sherlock scoffs, but John pretends that it’s done fondly.

            “Of course it’s for a case. Kidnapper, takes his victims from the streets around the restaurant. Doubt the two are related, but it makes for a comfortable stakeout. How long will you take to get ready?”

            John rolls his eyes. “Give me a minute to put a proper shirt on and grab a coat.” He can practically hear the grin in Sherlock’s voice as he replies, “Excellent.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, guys- I wasn't expecting this much response so quickly! Many thanks for the hits and kudos. I hope you enjoy this part as much as the last one.

            The walk to the restaurant is companionable, if silent, and John takes the opportunity to study Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. It’s always difficult to judge Sherlock’s weight accurately through his many layers of clothing, but today he’s forgone his scarf and it’s hard not to stare at the sharp collarbones that peek out from the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. John glances at his cheekbones, his fingers and wrists, any bit of skin he can see (which isn’t much) and tries to decide if the colour looks healthy.

            He decides it doesn’t.

            He’s surprised when Sherlock suddenly stops and holds open a door for him. They’ve reached the restaurant without him noticing. He clears his throat a little awkwardly and goes inside, hoping that Sherlock won’t be able to deduce what he’s been thinking about.

            “Sherlock!” As always, Angelo greets them as they settle into their usual booth by the front window. If his voice isn’t quite as exuberant as usual, John attributes it to the string of crimes that have taken place right in front of his business. They are handed their menus, and John smiles fondly as he remembers their first not-date here, several months ago. Sherlock didn’t eat then, either. His smile falters.

            “-thing exciting?” Sherlock is asking Angelo. John isn’t sure if it’s the light, but Sherlock’s skin seems rather see-through, and his eyes look shadowed.

            “Nothing yet,” Angelo replies, “but maybe you’ll get lucky.” He pauses, and even John can tell that he feels a bit uncomfortable about what he’s going to say next. “You feeling all right? You look a bit under the weather.”

            Sherlock smiles tightly. “I’m fine. Some water would be nice, though,” he adds  as an afterthought.

            “Right, good.” Angelo looks a little wrong-footed, and John feels a stab of sympathy for the man, right up until he plasters on a grin and says, in an overly joking tone, “Wouldn’t want to have to blame John here for not feeding you up right, eh?”

            It’s a weak joke, meant to clear the air after Sherlock’s iciness, but it hits John like a punch to the gut and he bites his lip as he opens up his menu. He can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, studying him, but he determinedly does not move or say anything until Angelo clears his throat and goes to get their drinks.

            “John.”

            “Hm?” John tries to sound politely distracted and keeps his gaze on his menu for half a second after he turns his head towards Sherlock.

            Sherlock is staring at him intensely, his eyes narrowed and scanning John’s face as if he’s trying to read what John’s thinking. For all he knows, Sherlock can, and it’s making him distinctly uncomfortable. Before he can say anything, however (this is starting to become a trend), Sherlock nods and relaxes. Well. He’s no longer actively deducing, but there’s still a thread of tension in his forehead and shoulders that John does not like. What he says when Angelo comes back, however, absolutely shocks him.

            “I’d like a plate of pasta.” Sherlock hesitates for a moment. “With some plain tomato sauce, if you have it.”

            Angelo nods, and wordlessly takes John’s order before retreating again from their table. Sherlock settles down to wait; he can’t quite seem to decide where to rest his eyes, however, and his right hand drums an irregular beat upon the table.

            John agonizes over what to say. Making a big deal out of this will most likely result in Sherlock never doing it again, but it’s out of character enough to warrant a comment. Sherlock will probably be expecting one, might even (though John doubts it) be insulted if John ignores this attempt to abide by their agreement. At last he smiles and settles on, “Eating on cases, now? That’ll help you think.” It sounds a bit inane and patronizing when he says it, but he means it well, and he hopes that Sherlock picks up on that.

            His only response is a vague hand gesture that could mean anything from _I suppose it will_ to _no it won’t_ , or even _shut up._ He pretends it’s the latter and decides to stay quiet until they’ve gotten their food. They’re here for a case, after all.

 -

            The window. _Look out the window._ His stomach feels queasy; the restaurant smells like rich food, and while he can normally either appreciate it but remain uninterested or ignore it completely, tonight he has to try and stimulate his stomach to feel empty before their food arrives. Logically, John won’t be angry with him if he doesn’t manage to finish his entire plate, but he needs to eat something.

            Part of him feels resentful; he’s already eaten today (it’s irrelevant that he doesn’t remember what it was) and he’s full. His mouth is making little saliva, and he’s much more interested in what’s going on outside the window, in trying to spot someone who fits the potential description of a kidnapper, than eating. But he’s ordered food and John will be disappointed if he doesn’t eat. No, worse than disappointed, he’ll feel pained, like he’s failed, and he doesn’t deserve that. Not when he’s been so patient about this.

            A plate of pasta is set before him- how long has he been lost in thought?- and John immediately digs into his own meal. Sherlock watches him for a moment. When John is really hungry, he’ll pay little attention to his surroundings, or at least as little as an ex-soldier can. His mood will plummet, and practically all of his lines of thought will be based around when and where he can next get food. Other times, when he’s only mildly hungry, he’s more patient, and can still think well enough. He’s like that now, smiling as he chews- the food is better than usual- and looking around the restaurant between bites, sometimes even glancing out the window- still has enough sense to keep an eye on the case, even though he has no idea who they’re looking for. It’s still fairly early, and likely that John had breakfast before Sherlock had left his room. How can he be able to eat again so soon?

            Sherlock looks down at his own plate: small, thankfully, and plain, with a splash of sauce and a drizzle of basil across the top. If this was set before him after a week-long case, he’d be glad to eat the entire thing. Now, however…

            John’s pulled out of whatever thoughts he’s having- nothing interesting enough to bother deducing- and looks at him curiously. “Not hungry anymore?”

            No. He’s not. But he forces a smile- slight enough so that John will not know the difference- and picks up his fork. “I was thinking.”

            Though John takes the hint and goes back to his own food quietly, Sherlock can still catch the way John’s eyes brighten and his shoulders relax. He’s happy that Sherlock’s eating, thinks that he’s finally listening to his body for once. Sherlock doesn’t correct him, merely twirls a few strands of pasta around his fork and lifts them to his mouth. It tastes all right, he supposes, but he soon finds that he cannot stop chewing and the food loses all flavour and he no longer wants to swallow it.

            But John is still sitting there; he would notice if Sherlock spat it out, would jump to conclusions that are so utterly _wrong_ but refuse to change his mind no matter how logical the explanation, and Sherlock simply does not have the time or the inclination to go through this argument right now. So he braces himself, and swallows.

            He resists the urge to shudder as the food goes down his throat. He knows it hasn’t reached his stomach yet (four seconds left), but he already feels bloated and sick. His plate looks untouched as he dangles his fork over it; how in the world will he be able to eat it all?

            But he must. So he dips his fork back in and tries to figure out the connection between all six of the victims.

            It is approximately ten minutes later when movement outside catches his eye. There are many pedestrians outside, this being central London, yet this particular one has been hanging about for several minutes- unremarkable face, nondescript clothing: definitely someone to watch. And Sherlock does watch him, for long enough that John finally takes notice and glances out the window as well.

            “Have you spotted him?” John asks. His face is neutral, which is good, but Sherlock turns back to his meal before he replies.

            “Man of average height, greyish-brown hair, wearing a brown coat,” he murmurs around a mouthful of pasta. His plate is only half empty but his stomach feels as though it’s taking up twice its allotted space. “Just across the street.”

            It takes John a moment to find him. “Are you sure? He looks so… boring.”

            Sherlock smirks. “He hasn’t moved for at least five minutes, and was likely standing by some other store before that. He’s hunting, John, out in broad daylight.” The sheer cockiness of it makes his hands and feet tingle, but he has to feel out John’s boundaries before he goes running off. “I assume you won’t object to leaving lunch early?”

            “Not at all,” John says, and the gun is shot, the gate is open; Sherlock springs out of his seat and exits the restaurant, John close behind.

            The man is not as observant as he likes to think he is. He’s looking in their direction, Sherlock is even looking back at him, and yet he doesn’t realise the danger he’s in. This makes it easier for them, of course, but Sherlock does so like giving chase. Wait. He’s not looking at them, he’s looking _past_ them, inside the restaurant. Is he looking for a patron, or Angelo?

            _Oh._ The connections snap into place so quickly he’s baffled by how he could have missed something so obvious. The problem with this, however, is that his head has turned to follow the man’s gaze, and John tugs on his sleeve not a moment later, hissing, “Sherlock, he’s moving.”

            _Stupid._ Sherlock takes off sprinting, thankfully _not_ tripping over a car like he had the first time he’d gone on a chase with John- though he knows what the man looks like now, it’ll be harder to pick him out of a crowd or know which alley he’s taken if they get too far behind.

            The exhilaration is coming on fast- pounding heart, pumping lungs, the slap of shoes on pavement, the glares and exclamations of passer-by as they jump out of his way- and it is perfect. John is right behind him; Sherlock can hear his breath. That observation distracts him for a tenth of a second, but he ignores it in favour of leaping over a cluster of delivery boxes a truck has left outside of a grocery store. John falls behind.

            Then it happens. Just as his feet touch down, there is an odd sensation in his stomach. Sherlock stumbles- his body doesn’t want to remain upright- but keeps going. Sweat starts to break out on his forehead. That shouldn’t be happening for at least another minute or two. He shoves the distractions aside; the man has just turned a corner and he must remember the exact shade of brown to latch onto once he’s in sight again.

            Unfortunately, he’s panting by the time he reaches the turning, and the tension in his stomach has progressed to pain. He clutches at the wall with one gloved hand, forcing himself to remain standing.

            “Sherlock!”

            John’s caught up. The relief does nothing to abate the cramping, however, and Sherlock slides down the wall until he’s crouching, curling around his abdomen as if that will make the pain go away.

            “Follow him,” he orders John. “I’ll be alright, just-” he swallows against sudden nausea- “go get him. You know what he’s wearing.”

            John dawdles, wasting precious seconds, until Sherlock summons up the last of his strength and glares at him with an intensity that he normally reserves for Mycroft.

            “Get him _now_ ,” he repeats. With one last torn glance, John begins to move, though he’s probably lost at least thirty seconds. “I’ll text Lestrade,” Sherlock calls after him, “tell him your general location.”

            And then John is gone. Sherlock breathes deeply and turns to lean his back against the wall; he feels as though he’s going to vomit. _Stupid_ to eat with the possibility of a chase looming. He’s told John time and again that he doesn’t eat on cases for a _reason_. It slows his mind, slows his body… and now John is on his own against a kidnapper who’s taken his victims because of their relation (friend or similar) to Angelo. John fits the profile, and he’s stuck here, crippled by a _sore stomach_.

            Slowly he breathes, clenches and unclenches his hands. John will be all right. He’s not helpless. But still… Sherlock dislikes leaving him on his own. (Sentiment? He’ll think on it later.) Perhaps he’ll have to tell John that this experiment on eating needs to end, or at least be postponed.

            No. If John catches the kidnapper, the case will be over. There’s nothing else he needs to do besides explain everything to Lestrade- remember to text him John’s location. Sherlock fishes his mobile out of his pocket with faintly trembling hands and removes a glove to operate the screen.

            He refuses to see that look cross John’s face again, refuses to let John feel inadequate in his new role as a partner, a lover (such as they are). He will simply have to  adapt. John is able to run after criminals on a full stomach (or at least run farther then Sherlock can), so it must come with practice. Until then he can use his homeless network as his eyes, trust the police (the phrase tastes bad even inside his mind) to do the actual catching until he adjusts. He will manage this. For John.


	3. Chapter 3

            He’s bent over the toilet for the fourth time in as many days, shivering as he tries to force back this latest bout of nausea. He’d hardly eaten anything this time, just a bowl of cereal- the thought occurs that perhaps the milk had gone off, but no, John just bought some yesterday- but half an hour after he’d swallowed the last bite, the familiar cramping had started.

            He’s grateful that John hasn’t been home this week to see the outcomes of his “experiments.” Each one of them has failed. He eats at various times (though never within half an hour of John’s projected return from work), tries smaller meals with different types of food, even attempts to sleep afterwards to see if that will help, but his body refuses to eat more than one meal during the day, even if the second is something as insubstantial as a cup of tea and some toast, or occasionally a piece of fruit. (He has not, however, thrown up when he eats with John in the evenings, no matter what the meal. He’ll start experimenting with a greater time factor tomorrow.)

            He cannot hold it back any longer. Sherlock screws up his face and allows his body to expel the food, at once relishing and hating the relief it brings his stomach. John would be appalled if he knew; that’s why Sherlock has told him absolutely nothing, and dutifully puts an X on the calendar for every meal he eats, whether it stays down or not. The first thing John does when he comes home from the surgery, after greeting him, is check to see if Sherlock’s eaten that day. Sherlock knows that one X would make him content. Two makes him positively glow, and the look on his face on Tuesday when Sherlock silently sat beside him at the dinner table and stole food from his plate, well…

            Sherlock is certainly not lacking in motivation.

            Approximately one hour later, Sherlock hears John’s footsteps on the stairs. They’re heavy, not to mention twelve minutes late (not long enough for an extra patient, so probably crowded Tube). He ought to get up, greet John at the door with a kiss, perhaps offer to rub the tension out of his bad shoulder again (the first time he did it, John’s response had been nothing less than intoxicating) but he feels as if there’s a heavy weight lying in his stomach and he can bring himself to do nothing more than roll himself over on the couch so that he’s facing the room.

            “Afternoon,” John says once he figures out that Sherlock isn’t sleeping. He hangs up his coat and goes into the kitchen. “Good day?”

            Sherlock merely grunts in reply. Next John will look at the calendar, see the X’s and smile, come back out and then… it’s always a surprise what he does then, but it’s always been pleasant.

            …Except John’s still in the kitchen. Sherlock opens one eye and cranes his neck up slightly. “John?”

            John’s voice is cheerful when he replies, but Sherlock can hear the disappointment he’s hiding. What’s he done wrong now? “Only one meal today?”

            Only…? Oh. Sherlock sets his head back down. “I ate a little over an hour ago. Must have forgotten to mark it down.”

            “I see.” Except he doesn’t sound like he sees. Or, if he does, he’s seeing a very different picture from the one that Sherlock would like, but it’s too much energy to correct him now. “Do you want me to make dinner?”

            Sherlock yawns. “You can if you like. I’m not hungry.”

            John makes an impatient sound, but if he says anything, Sherlock doesn’t catch it. The world is going fuzzy; within moments, he’s asleep.

            He’s awoken some time later (it’s dark outside and one or two lights have been switched on, but his eyes aren’t open so he can’t be precise) as a foreign weight settles on the couch by his waist. Inhale- aftershave, cotton, and a hint of sugar- John. Except there’s a certain _freshness_ to his scent, something warm, and-

            A spoon presses gently against his lips. From this distance he can smell the chocolate, and his stomach rumbles faintly. Sherlock opens his mouth and the spoon slips inside, along with a warm pastry that he barely has to chew. It’s like liquid sugar against his tongue and he licks the spoon clean before letting John remove it from his mouth.

            “Do you like it?” John asks him quietly. “I picked it up from the bakery down the street.”

            The information is irrelevant and his approval is obvious, so Sherlock says nothing. He simply waits until he hears the clink of the spoon against the plate and opens his mouth again. They continue like this for another minute or so until at last John leans forward and kisses him; Sherlock lets him lick the chocolate from his mouth, then murmurs out a wordless question as he pulls away. John sighs.

            “You’ve been very… quiet, this week,” he says. His left thumb strokes down Sherlock’s cheek and along his jaw. “I know you’d tell me if something was wrong, but I just wanted-”

            “I told you when we first met that sometimes I don’t speak for days,” Sherlock reminds him. “I’m fine.”

            “But you’re not doing anything, either,” John continues obstinately. It sounds like he’s been working himself up to say this ever since he came home, perhaps even since this morning. “I leave for work and you’re on the sofa. I come home, and you’re on the sofa.”

            “That’s also standard behaviour for me.” Sherlock sits up and opens his eyes. John’s shoulders are hunched, his gaze focused on the floor. He doesn’t want to put his concern into words, but it drops, fully formed, into Sherlock’s mind with a clarity that makes him clench his teeth in anger. Somewhere in the back of his mind there’s a little voice telling him to be gentle with John, that he has reason to worry, but Sherlock is so utterly fed up with thinking of nothing but his stomach that he lashes out in scorn. “You can weigh me, if it’ll set your mind at ease. You’ll find that I’ve gained almost five pounds this week. Is that acceptable?”

            That at least incites John to look at him, but his frown has grown more pronounced. “That’s not what I… The numbers don’t matter, Sherlock. I just want you to be healthy. This… what you’re doing, it isn’t healthy.”

            “I am _eating._ ” All patience he has with this conversation has been exhausted. “Or is that not what you wanted of me, doctor?”

            He doesn’t listen to what John says in reply, choosing instead to rise from the couch and stalk towards his bedroom. It’s obvious that he hasn’t done enough, that John is dissatisfied with the results of this experiment. He’s almost ready to give up out of spite and frustration, but every time the thought enters his mind he sees John’s face- crumpled, withdrawn, disappointed. John blames himself for Sherlock’s shortcomings, for his poor health, and this is unacceptable. No amount of logical reasoning will change his mind, however; they are partners now, and sentiment will triumph over reason nine times out of ten. He has to adjust, if only to convince John that he is doing good, but he is no longer sure that he can.

            Sherlock pulls the covers over his head and drifts off to sleep with the taste of chocolate fading from his tongue.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, the story is over already, but it was pretty short. Thank you guys for all of the kudos and bookmarks and comments, it makes me so happy. I may upload another story from my tumblr on here- need to decide if I'll edit it first or leave it as is. Still planning my AU fic, but no idea when that'll be up. In any case, hope you've enjoyed the fic and I hope to see you again soon!
> 
> Also, about weight numbers.. I'm using American pounds, just in case it throws anybody off.

            John doesn’t like taking a cab home from the surgery. It’s cheaper and easier to take the Tube, despite the crowds, but he’d forgotten his Oyster card that morning and the queues at the ticket booth never look very promising. Besides, he wants to get back to Sherlock as soon as he can; their fight has replayed itself in his mind a hundred times over the course of the day and the need to apologise is gnawing at him like a hunger. Maybe they can go out to dinner- no, Sherlock probably won’t appreciate any mention of food after yesterday. John would suggest a movie, but he knows from experience that Sherlock is hardly ever impressed by the titles in his collection. Well, he’ll think of something. He has to.

            He’s a little bit worried about what he’s going to find when he gets home. Every day this week, Sherlock has put two red X’s on the calendar along with the customary blue one. He’d let himself be pleased by the change (a bit drastic, even if Sherlock doesn’t generally do things by halves), but now he can’t help but wonder if Sherlock’s simply been humouring him. Will he feel relief, if that’s the case and he comes home to see a blank square? He doubts it, but he needs to know what he’s dealing with, and scathing honesty is what he’ll most likely get from Sherlock at this point in time.

            Hopefully there will be a way for them to compromise on this. The more he thinks about it, the more John realises that he’s all but taken over Sherlock’s choices in regards to eating. Even if he’s been doing it for Sherlock’s own good, he needs to remember that Sherlock’s a grown man and can make his own decisions about what he eats and when. If he says he’s been eating, John should trust him and leave it at that.

            He should, but he probably won’t. God help him.

            They arrive at the flat too soon. John thanks the cabbie, pays, and gets out. The living room window is lit, but he can’t see a silhouette behind the curtains. Sherlock’s probably on the couch again. John unlocks the door and begins to trudge up the steps, mentally composing what he wants to say. He can’t hear Mrs Hudson bustling around in her rooms, and there’s no sound of life from their own flat, even when he reaches the landing. It occurs to him that perhaps Sherlock’s gone out and not told him. He pauses outside the living room door and types out a quick message:

            _You in? JW_

            Two seconds later, he hears a chime through the door that leads to the kitchen. Evidently home, then. John walks directly into the kitchen, shrugging off his jacket as he goes.

            “Don’t worry about the text, Sherlock, I was just…” he trails off upon noticing that the kitchen is empty. Sherlock’s phone sits on the counter, next to an empty plate and glass. John frowns. He wouldn’t have left without his phone, so he must still be in the flat. He goes into the living room to hang up his coat. No Sherlock there, either. Crossing his fingers and hoping that Sherlock’s simply decided to take a nap in his own bed for once, John returns to the kitchen and starts down the hallway that leads to Sherlock’s room. He’s only taken one step, however, before a sound reaches his ears that makes his blood run cold.

            It’s the sound of vomiting.

            The retching is weak, as if he’s been at it for a while. John pauses to breathe for a minute, then goes through into Sherlock’s room and knocks on the bathroom door. “Sherlock?”

            There’s silence for a moment. Then the tap comes to life as he hears Sherlock rinse out his mouth and spit. The toilet flushes, the lock turns and finally Sherlock opens the door. He’s still in his pyjamas, which are dishevelled and dirty from kneeling. His face is paler than usual, and his hands are trembling slightly where they’re crossed over his stomach. He says nothing.

            “What happened?” John’s tone is blunt, straightforward, betraying none of the thoughts that are running through his mind ( _I was right/he can’t be doing this/why is he doing this/can I help)_. He’s been worrying about this all week, trying to convince himself that it’s not actually happening. Now that it’s finally come to stare him in the face, he’s… not relieved, but he knows how to deal with this.

            Sherlock’s still not talking. John opens his mouth-

            “I’ll be fine,” Sherlock interrupts, voice a little hoarse. He swallows and curls a little more around his stomach. “Must have contaminated the kitchen. Improperly cleaned up an experiment or something.”

            “Right.” John crosses his arms. “Your chemistry set isn’t out, you know.”

            Sherlock’s lips tighten into a thin line and he goes to close the door, but John catches the knob and holds it in place. He grunts softly; even sick and malnourished, Sherlock can put up a fight. “Stop. Just- tell me what’s going on.”

            Sherlock scrutinizes him for several seconds before letting go of the doorknob with a flourish. John manages to not lose his balance, but Sherlock is already on his bed and inspecting his nails by the time he turns around. His fingers look bonier than John remembers.

            “It’s nothing to worry about,” Sherlock says dismissively. “It’s getting better.”

            Now they’re getting somewhere, though the hidden truth behind those words hits John like a physical blow. “This has happened before?”

            Sherlock glances up at him in surprise. “It happens when I _eat_ , John. It isn’t difficult to confine the process to the hours that you aren’t at home.”

            “And what process would that be?” John asks. Somehow he manages to keep his voice steady. “I need you to say it.”

            Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Oh, don’t start this again. I do not have an eating disorder.”

            “Then why were you sick?” John counters. “If you didn’t do it to yourself.”

            Sherlock glares at him. “I am _fine_. Or have you not been counting my meals the same way that I do?”

            “You can’t count it as a meal if you throw it right back up after!”

            “It’s in my system long enough for some nutrients to get through,” Sherlock replies. “I’m not concerned.”

            “You weren’t concerned when you fainted from dehydration.” John’s breathing hard now and he knows that if this conversation goes much longer he won’t be able to control what comes out of his mouth. If this were any other sort of argument, this would be the moment when he goes for his jacket and takes a walk to clear his head. Now, however, he’s terrified of what he’ll come back to if he leaves again. The muscles in his leg suddenly spasm and he turns to clutch at the bathroom door so that he doesn’t fall.

            “John?” Sherlock’s at his side instantly- not touching, just hovering. “What is it? Have I said something?”

            _Of course you’ve said something, you twat,_ John thinks, but the only sound he can manage is a groan as he sinks down to the ground. Sherlock follows. Out of the corner of his eye John can see him reach out gingerly, then withdraw before his hand can make contact.

            “I’ve upset you,” Sherlock says slowly, “but I don’t understand. My condition is not your fault.”

            John begins to knead at his thigh. It’s only a sudden-onset spasm, so it’ll be over soon, but he likes to pretend that he can help it along. “That’s good to know,” he replies, “but not really what I was worried about.”

            Sherlock tilts his head in surprise. “No?”

            “No,” John repeats, and leaves off massaging his leg to face Sherlock straight-on. “Why would I think your not eating is my fault?”

            Sherlock gives him a _look_ , but proceeds without arguing the point again. “The first time you mentioned adjusting my eating habits, I wondered why it would matter to you. You cited our relationship as a reason to care about my health. Later, Angelo’s joke caused you distress. It was poking fun at your ability to “take care” of me. You also seem to take it personally when I don’t eat. Naturally I assumed that you would consider yourself a bad partner if my health did not improve, and so I decided to fix things.” He pauses. “I didn’t anticipate it being so difficult.”

            John frowns. “How do you mean, difficult? You either eat or you don’t.”

            Sherlock lets out a long-suffering sigh and leans back against the bed. “That’s precisely what I thought. And yet my body disagreed.”  He winces slightly and touches a hand to his stomach. “I’ve been… experimenting with increasing my food intake this week. Almost invariably, it’s resulted in vomiting. That’s what you heard when you came home. Nothing more.” He looks back up at John, his expression uncertain. “You must believe me, John, I never lied to you. I was simply trying to keep you from worrying.”

            John laughs bitterly. “Yeah, well, look how that turned out. God, Sherlock, I’ve been scared to death this whole week, and then I come home and hear you being sick-”

            “John.” Sherlock grabs his wrist; his fingers feel sharp, no matter what he says, but John tries to focus. “I meant it before. Weigh me. You won’t stop worrying until you do.”

            It won’t be a perfect solution, John knows, since he has only the vaguest idea of what Sherlock’s weight was before all of this started, but it will give him an anchor- something he can use to measure Sherlock’s progress later on. He nods, and Sherlock hauls himself up using the side of his bed.

            Thankfully they end up pulling the scale out into the bedroom, and Sherlock begins to undress. John’s about to protest when Sherlock waves him off.

            “I won’t be naked,” he says, “If that’s what you’re self-conscious about. The trousers add more weight than you’d think.” He slides them down off his hips in one fluid motion and John clears his throat, suddenly unsure where to look. He settles for Sherlock’s feet. They’re not too bony, not too pale, just… smooth. Soft, with a few wispy hairs along the top of the arch and across the toes. Sprightly feet, agile, ready to grip and pivot and run at a moment’s notice, and they’re… coming towards him. He looks up.

            Sherlock’s hand is outstretched, and the hint of a smile is forming on his face. It makes his eyes shift into something closer to blue than grey. John likes it.

            “Come on, John,” Sherlock says. “I won’t make up the numbers for you.”

            _I know you wouldn’t,_ John thinks, but he’s grateful that Sherlock’s leading him through this. Using both Sherlock and the door as leverage he hoists himself up and limps over to the scale. He watches the number pad carefully as Sherlock first taps it to turn it on, then steps onto it proper. The numbers scroll by for a few seconds, then slow to a stop. The machine beeps.

            “One hundred and… twenty-six.” It’s certainly not _good_ , but it’s better than John was expecting. He places one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, runs it down, feeling the muscle and the bone. His other he uses to trace Sherlock’s sternum and ribs, stroking gently as he reaches the waist. He pauses for a moment; Sherlock is watching him, trying to predict what he’s thinking. John can feel him trembling under his hands, though it could be from the cold or something else entirely. He closes his eyes. Then, as he can feel his throat tightening, he pulls their bodies together, pressing his face into Sherlock’s collarbone.

            They stand like that for a few moments, neither of them speaking. The ache in John’s thigh fades away, his throat loosens, and all he can feel are Sherlock’s arms encircling his shoulders and warm breath in his hair.

            “I don’t want you throwing up anymore,” he murmurs. “Figure out how much you can eat, and don’t force yourself to do more than that. I’ll trust you to take care of it.”

            Sherlock’s hold on him tightens for a fraction of a second. “You won’t… worry anymore?”

            It may not be exactly appropriate, but John finds it in him to chuckle. “Sherlock, if you’re able to gain five pounds while throwing up, I don’t think I’ve any right to worry about what happens when you don’t.”

            Sherlock’s lips brush across his forehead and his hands shift to clutch at John’s neck and waist. If the trembling increases John says nothing about it; he simply lapses back into silence and strokes his fingers gently through Sherlock’s hair.


End file.
